


When You Know I Can't

by sherrybaby



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Underage, No happy endings, Stozier, angsty af, not graphic, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 21:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrybaby/pseuds/sherrybaby
Summary: Anon request: Stozier with the theme of the song "Love Love Love" by OMAMthis isn't happy





	When You Know I Can't

**Author's Note:**

> sorry

Richie stared at the roof below his feet, hands gripping the windowsill, ears burning, eyes welling up with tears. But he wouldn’t cry, not in front of him, not this time. His teeth sunk into his lip and he blinked back tears, still not looking up. he scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the grainy shingle, shivering from the slight wind, regretting his thin flannel. He didn’t ask him to come in; he never did. Only tensed up when the other boy spoke.

“I’ll never be yours, Richie, not the way you want me to. I can’t love you.”

“Why?”

“How many times are we going to do this?” Stan rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. This had happened at least two or three times before: Richie coming over at two in the morning or cornering Stan in the hallway or at baseball practice, confessing his love; Stan always gently rejected him. but now Stan was  _tired,_ tired of being woken up and tired of being asked for something he couldn’t give.

“Stan.”

“ _Richie,” S_ tan mocked. 

“Seriously, Stan. Why? Do you know how hard this is for me to say over and over again?”

“Then why keep asking, Richie? The answer won’t change. I don’t want you. I don’t want a relationship with hand holding and warm fuzzies and one-and-onlys.”

“With anyone?”

“Maybe… I just want to see what happens,” the boy shrugged.

“You mean you just want to fuck random people and blow off the one person who gives a shit about you.” Richie’s face twisted into a mask of bitterness.

“Richiiiiie-” Stan groaned, throwing his head back. Goosebumps raised up on his exposed skin not covered by the sheet wrapped around his tall frame, and Richie had to restrain himself to not reach out and trace Stan’s protruding collarbone

( _was he always that thin?)_

“What about that night-”

“That night? God, Richie, it was a year and a half ago! You really still think about that?” Stan couldn’t hold back his biting laugh, ignoring Richie’s face beginning to crumple.

“All the time… Y-you don’t?”

“Not really…”

They had stumbled into an empty bedroom at a party, drunk on alcohol and that carefree feeling that came with it. Richie mostly remembered the afterwards, the curve of Stan’s shoulder as he slept, the way his fingers had snuck their way between Richie’s, had let Richie wrap his arms around his frame and nuzzle into his neck. The moonlight illuminating the room, giving everything an ethereal glow

_(earth angel earth angel will you be mine)_

an old song came flooding back to Richie in that moment, one he and Stan used to sing with each other, the radio down low at a sleepover years ago. Stan had climbed out of bed the next morning while Richie was sleeping, had covered his bruises and shame up with concealer he borrowed from Bev under worried  _(pained)_ eyes.

In the morning, Richie knew they couldn’t go back to being best friends, hadn’t been best friends, not after years apart, after Richie first confessed his love. High school came and hit them like a wave, ripping them apart. Richie sometimes felt like he was drowning without stan by his side. 

* * *

Richie’s jaw clenched and relaxed a few times and he picked at the peeling paint on the sill before speaking.

“Stan, you’re the only one who gets me, the  _real_  me. And I get you. I  _love_  you.”

“ _LOVE_  me? Richie, you don’t even  _know_  me. We haven’t been close in years. What, since we were thirteen? Since the sewers? I look at you and I still see that fucking painting… I- I still look over my shoulder.” Stan’s voice dropped to a whisper, ashamed. He shook his head, curls bouncing wildly. His hand absentmindedly brushed over the scars on his face, the ones only the losers could see.   

“Stan, I can help you, let me take care of you,” Richie pleaded and he hated how the desperation crept into his voice so easily, made itself a home there like so many times before.

“You can’t fucking take care of me! What do you want, Richie, to hold me and comfort me when I wake up crying from nightmares every goddamn night?”

“Yes, Stanley, that’s exactly what I want.”

“Stop, Rich. I don’t want this, you need to go home and stop this.”

“Fine. tell me you hate me,” the boy cracked a grin, hoping his thin charm would help. His nose scrunched, pushing his glasses up in a way that Stan always found to be unbearably cute- but now it was just annoying.

“I hate you.” The words came out of his mouth so easily like once before, directed towards Bill. But this time there wasn’t a smile following. Just gritted teeth and cold eyes. Richie’s grin disappeared immediately, matching his friend’s steely stare.

“Stan. What happened to us?”

“You reminded me of everything I wanted to forget.”

Rich pretended he didn’t hear Stan’s voice cracking, that he didn’t see Stan unraveling at the seams. And Stan shut him out. Shut the window that was never fully closed; before, Stan always kept it open slightly, an invitation for both the cold air and the Richie it always brought. The sign was clear. 

Stan crawled into bed. Richie watched from the outside, pressed his face against the cold glass, his hot breath fogging it up. He couldn’t miss how Stan’s blanketed form shook and how his strangled sobs mixed with the rising wind. 

Richie climbed down the trellis, shoving his hands in his pockets, like so many times before. Nursing a broken heart like so many times before. Walked the well-traveled route between his house and Stan’s house for the last time.


End file.
